W. Griffin: Final Justice

“Shit!”

Mickey went back out to the Jaguar and immediately discovered that Matt had been in error. The cigarette lighter hole was hot, even with the ignition off. The proof was that the once dead-as-a-doornail device was chirping.

Mickey wondered what the hell Casimir-the only person who had the number-wanted this time of night. It was eight-fifteen here, which meant that it was 2:15 A.M. in the States.

“What’s up, Casimir?”

“That you, Mickey?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Jason Washington.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Is Matt somewhere around? And how is he?”

“He’s fine. We’re about to have breakfast. Can I give him a message?”

“Can’t you just give him the phone, Mick?”

“I don’t think the battery will last that long,” Mick said. “This is important? Nothing wrong with anybody?”

“It’s important, Mick. Nothing’s wrong with anyone.”

“Hang on, I’ll get him.”

“This afternoon, huh?” Mickey asked after Matt returned from the Jaguar and reported the gist of his conversations with Lieutenant Washington and a somewhat sleepy-sounding Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani. “It’s a sure thing?”

“So says Mariani. He says Eileen Solomon told him she talked to the embassy.”

“That bastard in the embassy never said a goddamn word to me.”

“Possibly because you forgot to call him.”

“Screw you, Matty. Did they say where?”

“The Palais de Justice in Bordeaux.”

“Well, we better drive over there after we finish breakfast,” O’Hara said.

“Actually,” Matt said, thoughtfully. “It makes a pretty good last act. The fat lady sings. The last act of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. I’m quitting the job, Mickey.”

“You’re not going to bring that crap up again, are you?”

“Again?”

“You had a couple of drinks-eight or ten-too many the other night, pal, after you had your little chat with the lady detective.”

“And I told you?”

“You were… somewhat loquacious… Matty. You would never love again, and you were quitting the job. Ad infinitum.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“And thus you don’t remember what I told you?”

“No.”

“I said you were probably lucky Detective Whatsername dumped you-I never liked her; she’s one of those dames who’s never satisfied-and as full of shit as a Christmas turkey about quitting the job. You could no more do anything else than I could become a ballet dancer. You’re a cop, Matty. A good one. It’s in your blood.”

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais of Mr. Isaac Festung.

He was accompanied by two gendarmes.

He was wearing what looked like a dirty white poncho and baggy blue cotton trousers, and was barefoot in leather sandals.

He looked around the room and spotted Mickey.

He walked to the table.

“You were at my home this morning,” he challenged. “Taking pictures.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Morbid interest? Or journalistic? Or is there a difference? ”

"I’m a reporter, if that’s what you mean,” O’Hara said.

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that I’m not granting any interviews right now.”

“That’s good, because I’m not asking for one.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

"I just rode down here with him,” O’Hara said, nodding at Matt.

Festung turned his attention to Matt.

“You’re a reporter?”

“No, I’m not, Mr. Festung,” Matt said. “I’m a police officer. I’m here to take you into custody when the court of appeals denies your appeal.”

“Well, then, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time, too, my young friend. That’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll know for sure about that this afternoon in Bordeaux, won’t we? And I’m not your young friend, Mr. Festung. I’m Sergeant Matthew Payne, Badge 471, Homicide Unit, Philadelphia police department.”

Festung met Matt’s eyes for a long moment, and when Matt didn’t blink, apparently lost his appetite for breakfast, for he suddenly spun around on his heels and stalked out of Le Relais, with the two gendarmes on his heels.

“That felt good, admit it,” Mickey said.

“I don’t know about ‘good,’ Mick, but it felt right.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Mickey said.

And they left.